Boromir's Story
by RumpelstiltskinDearie
Summary: This is "The Lord of the Rings" from Boromir's point of view. The truth in what he was thinking and struggling with throughout the journey. Rated T for violence, currently.
1. Chapter 1

**Boromir's Story  
by Gwin Gold**

-X-X-X-

**Author's Note: **I'm quite aware that most of this is highly incorrect, as far as the books and movies are concerned. But that's why it's called an AU, right?  
Please read and review to let me know what you thought!

-X-X-X-

"Boromir, you have been summoned to go to Rivendell for an important meeting they are going to have there." Denethor sounded full of pride.

Boromir looked at his father. "What?" He was incredulous; why would the Elves summon him, of all people?

"You have been summoned to Rivendell," Denethor repeated patiently, smiling. "You _will_ go, will you not?"

"Well…of course," Boromir said. His answer was automatic—there was almost no one in the whole country of Gondor who would dare say no to Denethor.

"Good!" Denethor clapped his hands once. "Good. You shall depart immediately; you must not keep the Elves waiting."

"Yes, Father," Boromir replied, although he found himself wishing that, just once, Denethor would ask for someone else's opinion on matters instead of deciding everything for everyone.

Denethor said nothing, merely returning to his supper.

_That must mean I'm dismissed, _Boromir remarked silently, with just a hint of exasperation. Nonetheless, he turned and left the room, nodding to the guards as he went.

Soldiers and guards acknowledged him as he strode past, but none spoke. It was as though all of them had already known he would be leaving on a mission that day.

_Perhaps they did. _Boromir walked outside. He paused by the old, gnarled tree that resided in the middle of the courtyard, and felt a heavy weight on his heart.

Ever since the White Tree had died, hope of defeating Mordor had faded more and more. It did not help any that Gondor had no king.

If Boromir was going to be honest, he would admit that Denethor was doing a poor job of keeping both Minas Tirith and Gondor in good shape. But then, perhaps that was to be expected. He was no king; no royal blood ran through his veins.

Denethor had been looking to Boromir to set things right for several months now. It seemed as though Denethor had given up all hope of being able to help Gondor, and was already passing the title of Steward on to his oldest son.

_I do not know if I am ready to become Steward of Gondor yet, _Boromir thought, gazing thoughtfully at the White Tree. _But I will try to set things right. There must be a way to restore Gondor to its former glory, and I will find it._

Boromir finally tore his eyes from the Tree, and, nodding to the men who guarded it, continued on his way. He was already dressed for travel—he had on light armor, and his sword and horn were with him. He had only just returned from a visit to Rohan.

Now all he needed was to have one of the stable boys get his horse ready, and he would be off. It seemed as though Boromir spent most of his time travelling these days.

Fifteen minutes later, Boromir was inside the stables. He had asked one of the servants to go and ready his horse, and they had run off.

"Boromir! I would not have expected to see you here so soon after returning!"

Boromir turned to see who had spoken, and then smiled. It was Faramir, his brother.

"Father received word that the Elves at Rivendell wished for me to meet with them," Boromir explained. "So I must leave again."

A shadow crossed Faramir's face for a brief moment. "Of course." He obviously was trying quite hard to hide the resentment in his voice, but failing.

Boromir sighed. "If Father had bothered to ask for my opinion, I would have told him I wanted to rest for a while." He knew this was not true; he merely wanted to console his younger brother.

Unfortunately, Faramir knew it was a lie as well. He had always been able to read Boromir's thoughts. "No, you wouldn't have. You would have agreed to go."

"Faramir," Boromir said, sensing what Faramir was thinking. "He does not favor one of us above the other." Again, the lie escaped before he could stop himself.

Faramir shook his head. "He does."

"Faramir…" Boromir sighed again.

"Never mind," Faramir said. "What's done is done." Before Boromir could protest, he changed the subject. "Return soon, all right, Boromir?" He managed to give Boromir a smile that only looked half-false.

Boromir hesitated, reluctant to leave knowing that Faramir still believed that Denethor loved him more than the younger son. Then he shook his head slightly. _Faramir will always believe that, so long as Father continues to treat us differently. _He returned Faramir's smile, feeling like he had to say something to console him. "I will, little brother. I always will."

Faramir nodded, and then turned abruptly and left.

Just then, the stable boy returned, leading Boromir's stallion.

The horse was a chestnut color. Its name was Alcarin; he was named for one of the former kings of Gondor.

"Is there anything else you need?" the stable boy asked in a small voice.

"No," Boromir said, taking the reins from the boy. "Thank you." He saw that the boy was still nervous, but did not know what to do about it. In the end, he just gave the boy an encouraging smile.

The youth managed a shaky grin, then turned and scampered away into the shadows of the stable.

Boromir laughed quietly, amused at how quickly the boy had retreated. Then he mounted Alcarin and carefully urged him forward.

Alcarin gave a soft whicker, then trotted outside and started through the streets of Minas Tirith.

Everyone who saw Boromir pass looked at him curiously, as though they too were wondering where he was going so soon after coming home.

Boromir was accustomed to this, however, and pretended not to notice.

He could not help but feel slightly nervous; he had never gone to see the Elves before. Many people thought badly of the Elven race as well. They considered the Elves cowardly and weak, hiding away in their forested realms.

Boromir was unsure of what he should believe. In the end, he decided to push all thoughts of Rivendell out of his mind and concentrate on getting there safely.


	2. Chapter 2

By the time Minas Tirith was out of sight, darkness was falling. Boromir began to wonder whether he should have waited until the next day to leave; at least then he would have had time to find a camp. Now he had to travel all night long. It was too dark to see whether any place was a suitable place to sleep.

An hour before midnight, Alcarin stopped abruptly, jerking Boromir forward in the saddle.

"What—" Boromir nudged Alcarin in the side with his heel. "Go on, Alcarin. Go on."

Alcarin snorted, tossing his head up and down, side to side. Then he began to back up.

"Alcarin, stop it!" Boromir again tried to get his horse to go forward.

The stallion whickered, still tossing his head. He went forward a few steps, and then shied back, turning in circles.

_Something's wrong_. Boromir scanned the surroundings with his eyes, but could see nothing. Black clouds had drifted in front of the moon.

When Alcarin paused in his erratic movements, Boromir jumped out of the saddle, landing on the ground. He unsheathed his sword, gripping it tightly and wishing he had some sort of lantern or torch.

There was no sound to be heard save for Alcarin's hooves as he fretfully trotted back and forth. For a fleeting moment, Boromir was relieved that all horses were trained never to run away without their rider's permission.

He stood there for several minutes, listening to his horse and to his own breathing.

_Perhaps Alcarin scented something on the wind, _Boromir thought. _Perhaps there is no immediate danger._

Caught in a moment of indecision, Boromir adjusted his grasp on the hilt of his sword. Should he re-sheathe it, and attempt to go on his way? Or was it a better idea to stay ready for a fight?

No. He could be standing in this same spot all night without any sign of a threat.

Boromir reached down and fumbled with his scabbard for a moment, trying to get it so that he could re-sheathe his sword without cutting himself.

When he was certain that he had the scabbard in the right position, Boromir carefully slid the blade of his sword into it.

Just as he turned around to mount Alcarin once more, several things happened all at once.

The clouds dissipated so that moonlight streamed down.

Boromir saw the terror in Alcarin's eyes.

The horse let out a shrill whinny.

And then Boromir heard a ferocious roar from behind him. He spun around, his hand unsheathing his sword with uncanny speed.

A huge shape hurtled towards him from the shadows. Before Boromir could strike, the mysterious monster had slammed into him, knocking him to the ground.

Boromir let out a yell as sharp claws raked across his left hand. He could smell the reek of rotting meat on the creature's breath.

Desperate, Boromir struggled to get his sword arm free. The beast was trying to sink its teeth into his left arm, but currently failing to, seeing as Boromir was wearing gauntlets as well as a chain mail shirt.

Boromir finally got his right arm free and thrust it forward. The tip of his blade drove into the creature's flesh. It tumbled backwards with a howl.

Breathing heavily, Boromir scrambled to his feet. He could feel warm blood dripping down the back of his left hand.

The monster was in a patch of silvery moonlight. Boromir could see it clearly now.

It was a Warg. Its fur was dark brown and scruffy. It was matted down, and Boromir did not dare to guess what it was matted down with.

The Warg raced forward again, and Boromir dodged to one side, twisting and slashing at the monster as it went past. His blade scored across its side.

With another ear-piercing howl, the Warg skidded to a stop and turned around to stare at Boromir. Its eyes blazed.

Boromir watched it steadily.

The Warg snarled and started to charge forward. Boromir stumbled backwards, holding his sword out in the hopes that the monster would impale itself on the blade.

Then there was a shrill whinny, and Alcarin was suddenly rearing up in front of the Warg, his hooves lashing out in the air.

The Warg froze, hunkering down in a moment of fear as it stared up at Alcarin.

Alcarin came down with crushing force. The Warg let out a yelp, and then went still.

Boromir slowly came forward and prodded the heap of fur with his sword. It did not move. It truly was dead.

Alcarin tossed his head once, as though challenging the motionless creature to come to life again. Boromir reached out and stroked Alcarin's muzzle.

"Courage in battle isn't the only thing they train horses in, is it?" Boromir murmured, tilting his head back slightly to avoid being knocked in the chin by Alcarin, who was bobbing his own head up and down. "Do they train you to fight as well?"

Since Alcarin could obviously not answer, Boromir decided to ask one of the master horsemen when he returned to Minas Tirith.

Boromir re-sheathed his sword for a second time and mounted Alcarin. He could still feel blood, hot and sticky, streaming down his hand. But there was not enough light to examine the damage—he would just have to wait until day came.

*8*8*

Boromir rode on throughout the night. Alcarin never seemed to tire, but Boromir did. Before long, he was sleeping, half-slumped in the saddle, the reins clutched in his hands. If anyone had passed him on the road, they would think him seriously injured.

Eventually, it was the bright sunlight that woke him. He straightened up, shaking his head and blinking drowsily.

At first, he forgot where he was. All he knew was this his hand and arm hurt, his back was sore, and the sunlight was blinding him.

Slowly, though, he began to get his bearings. _The Elves at Rivendell summoned me to a meeting…_

He glanced down, only mildly surprised to see that his whole forearm was sticky with drying blood. He remembered the Warg.

_Strange…Wargs do not usually stray so far out of their own territory, _Boromir thought.

He told Alcarin to stop, and then dismounted. Wargs were filthy creatures—who knew what sort of disease Boromir could acquire if he did not mend his wounded arm.

Boromir busied himself with making a fire. Then he went to go fetch water.

He was following Anduin, the Great River. The way was no longer or shorter than if he just went straight across Gondor towards Rohan, and at least he knew he would have plenty of water when and if his supply ran out.

It took him ten minutes to reach the banks of the Anduin on horseback. He walked down onto the rocky shore, leaving Alcarin on a grassy hillock a few hundred yards away.

Once his waterskin was full, Boromir straightened up. He looked around for a minute, taking in the rushing silver water of the Anduin for a moment.

He remembered the first time he had left Minas Tirith to go on a journey. It had felt very strange to leave both his home and familiar surroundings behind; he had been extremely reluctant to go out of sight of the Anduin.

But eventually he had. Now he did it all the time, and thought nothing of it.

Boromir turned around and strode back to where Alcarin was grazing on the grass. A few moments later, he had mounted and was riding back to where he had built his fire.

When he got there, he poured the water into a pan and put it over the fire to boil.

As he waited, Boromir used an old rag to polish the blade of his sword where the Warg's dark blood had marred it.

Boromir paused every so often to glance at Alcarin. If anything threatening approached, Alcarin would be the first to know.

But every time Boromir looked, Alcarin continued to munch on the grass, showing no sign of worry.

Boromir leaned over and took the pan off of the fire. He set it on the ground and put a few strips of fabric into the hot water to soak. He always carried a few old cloth pieces for use as bandages—they never failed to come in handy.

He rolled up both the sleeve of his chain mail shirt and the sleeve of his red tunic to examine the wound.

There were four jagged gashes in the back of his hand, and a few small puncture wounds in his arm where the Warg had managed to bite him. Most of the blood came from the claw marks on his hand.

Boromir used one of the pieces of cloth in his pack to wipe off most of the blood.

A few seconds later, Boromir used a small stick to fish the bandages out of the hot water. He waited for the excess water to drip off, and then took the strips of fabric into his hand.

They were still hot, but not painfully so. Gingerly, Boromir wrapped one of the strips around his hand and then tied it off. He winced, biting back a hiss of pain. Then he did the same to the bite marks on his arm.

When he was finished, Boromir kicked dirt over the fire to put it out. He placed the pan and waterskin back into his pack.

Then he mounted Alcarin and urged the horse into a brisk walk.


	3. Chapter 3

Several days passed without any more signs of trouble. On his sixth day of travelling, Boromir made camp in a place where he could see Cair Andros in the distance.

Cair Andros was a base of sorts where, when battle seemed imminent, the King of Gondor—or, in the current times, Steward—would send a few troops of soldiers to keep guard. It was built on a rather small island that was in the middle of the Anduin.

Boromir sat by the fire, eating his afternoon meal and watching Cair Andros. He did not expect to see anyone there, but it was something to look at.

Alcarin was tethered to a tree branch, calmly eating grass.

Boromir had to admit that he was not looking forward to going through Rohan on his way to Rivendell. He had nothing against the Rohan people; but they did not feel very kindly towards Gondor at the present time.

Boromir knew there was no danger of being attacked by any of the Rohan warriors—he was a lone man, and only held a sword and a horn in his possession. Besides, the Rohan people preferred peace above violence. They would certainly not harm him unless he gave them reason to.

There was a soft whicker from Alcarin, and Boromir looked up sharply, his hand straying towards the hilt of his sword.

But the stallion returned to grazing as though nothing had happened. Perhaps he had merely been startled by a bird or a sound on the wind.

Boromir finished eating, and, after rinsing the plate off with some water from his leather waterskin, put it back in his pack.

Then Boromir got to his feet and walked to the edge of the hill. The incline downwards was steep; he had had to dismount and lead Alcarin up it instead of riding.

He turned his gaze to Cair Andros. As he watched, he was surprised to see a few men milling around in between some of the many columns that lined Cair Andros.

_Why would Father post guards there? _Boromir wondered, although he already suspected he knew the answer.

Mordor was growing stronger, there was no doubt. Everyone sensed it; now it was getting to the point where Denethor wanted a few men guarding Cair Andros.

A cold wind started up, ruffling Boromir's hair and tugging at the sleeves of his tunic. A shiver ran down his spine and he wrapped his arms around himself, trying to keep warm.

After a few moments longer of watching Cair Andros, the guards had still not left the place where they were standing. Boromir turned and went back to the fire.

Lost in thought, Boromir picked up a stick and prodded the embers of the fire with it. The ghostly, wavering call of a night bird echoed through the twilight air.

A long, drawn-out howl followed.

Boromir jumped, startled, and then reached for his sword. The howl sounded again. It was not a Warg; the call was too high-pitched. Perhaps it was merely a normal wolf.

Relaxing only slightly, Boromir surreptitiously glanced over his shoulder. As far as he could tell, the only living being around besides himself was Alcarin.

And, of course, the guards that were wandering around at Cair Andros.

Boromir wondered whether the guards were just as nervous as he was tonight, or if they were too distracted with their duties.

For a fleeting second, Boromir wished that he could ride down to Cair Andros and spend the night with the guards. He would be grateful for human company.

_No, _he told himself. _By the time I even got to the shore of the Anduin, dawn would be breaking. If I did, by some stroke of luck, managed to get there before then, how would I reach Cair Andros? I highly doubt there are any spare boats down there._

No, he would simply have to wait until he got to Rohan to see another living human. Or maybe he would have to wait until he got to Rivendell—if the Elves could even be considered 'human'.

Boromir sighed and lay down on his back. It was a fairly clear night, and vast stretches of stars sparkled above like silver fire. The moon hung above, casting pale beams of light onto the ground.

_There are some things that I would not be able to see if I stayed in Minas Tirith, _Boromir thought drowsily. _I doubt that many men from the White City have seen the night sky like this—untarnished by firelight and tall towers._

Then again, the Tower of Ecthelion was a wondrous sight as well. Glimmering like a spike of pearl and silver…its banners caught high in the wind…

Sometimes Boromir wondered which life he would choose if he was forced to make a choice.

_Nonsense. Minas Tirith is my home; I am no Ranger. I am a warrior of Gondor, and I always will be._

With that thought, Boromir closed his eyes. He was soon asleep.


	4. Chapter 4

Four days later, Boromir reached a place where a smaller river branched off from the Anduin.

Boromir did not trouble himself to check the map he had brought. He had travelled along the Anduin enough times to realize that this smaller body of water was one of the several branches of the Entwash River.

Alcarin nickered softly, waiting for Boromir to make clear the road they would take.

Boromir cast a glance down the trail he had just left, and then looked back at the new river. He tugged slightly on the left side of Alcarin's reins.

The horse continued walking, his hooves leaving faint imprints in the damp bank of the Entwash River.

Idly, Boromir found himself wishing that other Gondorian men were sent on journeys more often. It was…well, as much as he despised admitting it, it was lonely. Especially for someone who had spent his whole life surrounded by servants and soldiers.

The irony in it was that sometimes Boromir was glad to be alone.

_You are confusing yourself again, Boromir, _he told himself. _You had best stop doing so. It will do you no good to continue on with this journey if you are too perplexed to speak clearly when you reach Rivendell._

The sun was rising high in the sky a few minutes later. Boromir briefly considered taking off the black leather tabard he wore.

A startled snort from Alcarin made him decide against it.

Alcarin stopped abruptly, standing stock still. His ears twitched and swiveled around, and he stared at the path ahead.

Boromir slid off his horse's back and landed on the ground. Despite his efforts to remain silent, a few leaves rustled under his feet. Boromir froze, waiting for something to crash out of the undergrowth.

_Don't be foolish; no one could have heard a few leaves rustling over the rush of the river, _Boromir thought, shaking his head slightly.

He took Alcarin's reins. "Come along, Alcarin." He led the horse into a stand of trees, still persisting to be as quiet as possible.

Boromir left Alcarin behind a thick-trunked tree, and then crept forward. One hand rested on the hilt of his sword, while the other carefully pushed stray branches out of the way.

As he prowled through the woods, faint voices reached Boromir. He stopped and strained to hear.

He was too far away. He either had to get closer, or wait for the voices to come to him. That could take several minutes, if at all.

Boromir began to walk forward again, keeping to the shadows and struggling to avoid disturbing any leaves or pebbles underfoot.

Finally, he came within hearing range of the voices. He stopped, gripping the hilt of his sword with one hand, ready to draw it at the first sign of trouble.

"Oi, gimme some o' that meat. You've 'ad enough already!" snarled one voice.

"Catch somethin' else fer yerself," snapped another. "I caught this, fair an' square."

Intrigued, Boromir moved forward. Perhaps, if he stayed in the trees, he could see the speakers without being seen himself…

When he could see who was talking, Boromir almost wished he would have stayed back in the shadows.

Three—no, five—hulking creatures were standing in the middle of the path. The same path that Boromir would have continued riding down if Alcarin had not alerted him to the sounds ahead.

The monsters appeared to be half-man and half something else. Four out of the five of them had rings hanging from the ears or piercing the skin along the bridge of their noses.

A flash of recognition struck Boromir. These were Orcs. The creatures that Saruman—Sauron's henchman—used as his minions, spies, and fighters.

Two of the Orcs were arguing with each other, apparently over a few scraps of meat. It had been mutilated so badly, it was past the point of where anyone could tell what animal it had come from.

The other Orcs were either laughing or grumbling under their breath.

Boromir suppressed a shudder as he thought about just what the Orcs would have done to him if he had kept riding.

_The only options I have are to either wait until they pass, or hope I can defeat all of them before they defeat me, _Boromir thought.

Neither of the ideas truly appealed to him.

Boromir paused. He debated silently with himself for a long minute, and then made his decision. It would be best to return to where he had hidden Alcarin and wait until the Orcs passed by.

Somewhat satisfied, Boromir turned to go. Then disaster struck.

A twig snapped underneath his boot.

Boromir froze, and then spun around.

The Orcs were now staring straight at him from their positions on the path. At first, Boromir harbored hopes that they couldn't actually see him and merely thought it was some sort of animal.

But then one of the Orcs—the one with the bloody bit of meat in its hand—bellowed, "Get 'im!"

Boromir drew in a sharp intake of breath. The Orcs began to scramble up the slope towards the stand of trees.

Boromir turned and ran. He did not care about the branches or bushes in his way—now he barreled heedlessly through them.

He could hear the shouts and predatory growls of the Orcs following close behind him. He could also hear a couple on the path below, cutting off any chance of escape.

Of course, he could always race deeper into the woods, but even he knew that that was a foolish notion.

_I must turn and fight._

Just as Alcarin came into sight, Boromir skidded to a stop and whirled around. He unsheathed his sword, holding it in front of him almost as though he was clutching a torch.

The Orcs rapidly gained on him, leaping over any logs or rocks in their way.

One of them let out a roar and brought their sword down in a swift arc. Boromir brought his own blade up just in time to block the attack. The clashing blades elicited a shower of sparks.

Boromir sprang back, dodging a blow that the Orc aimed at his ribcage.

Then the rest of the Orcs arrived.

With savage bellows, the creatures scrambled the rest of the way up the slope, their weapons raised.

Boromir turned back in time to block yet another attack from the first Orc. It seemed determined to use as much force and power in its blows as possible, instead of speed.

Ducking underneath a blow directed at his head, Boromir lunged forward, driving his blade through the Orc's abdomen. A rumbling growl escaped its throat, and it had just enough time to sneer at Boromir before falling down dead.

Boromir yanked his blade out, spattering black blood, and then whirled around to face the rest of the Orcs.

They had reached him much faster than he had anticipated. In fact, one of them was right in front of him.

The Orc backhanded Boromir across the face. It was even more painful than a normal punch, seeing as the creature clutched its sword tightly in one hand, and the hilt—which had struck the side of Boromir's head—was made of iron.

Boromir jerked sideways with the impact, and he lost his balance, hitting the ground hard.

Dazed though he was, Boromir managed to bring his sword up. He weakly batted away one of the Orc's attempts to pin him to the ground with their blade. Then he pulled his legs underneath him in an effort to stand.

He had only managed to get into a kneeling position before two of the Orcs came at him.

Boromir lashed out at the nearest one. He got a lucky hit; his blade cut across the Orc's neck. It shrieked and stumbled back.

Boromir staggered to his feet to defend himself against the remaining three Orcs. _Four, if the one that I sliced just now is still alive, _Boromir thought wryly, keeping his eyes on the Orcs.

"Don't make this 'arder on yerself than it is already, wretch," growled one of the Orcs. "Submit, and we won't kill you as painfully."

The harsh words—as well as the complaints they registered from the other Orcs—sent a slight shiver down Boromir's spine. By way of answer, he let out a wordless yell, and rushed forward, swinging his sword in a vicious slice.

The blade swished past the broad chest of the nearest Orc, drawing a thin line of black blood. The hulking creature hardly flinched, and stabbed at Boromir with its own weapon.

Boromir leapt back, but not before the Orc's blade slashed across his right hand, drawing blood. Boromir bit back a curse—now both of his hands were injured, and possibly poisoned or infected.

He heard a sharp whinny from Alcarin, but paid little attention to it. At the moment, he was focused on the Orcs, trying to detect their next moves.

All three moved slowly forward, surrounding him. The fourth Orc was still slumped lifelessly over a tree stump—apparently, Boromir's lucky strike had slit the Orc's throat beyond survival.

Boromir instinctively took a step back, before realizing that that was merely taking him even closer to one of the Orcs.

All he could do was stand there, motionless in the center of the circle of Orcs. Watching them and hoping that he could dispatch at least one of the brutes before…

He broke the thought off there.

The leader of the group hissed something in the Black Speech. The other two Orcs gave slight nods.

Boromir, in one last act of desperation, lunged for the leader, his sword arm outstretched.

The Orc easily sidestepped the blow. Boromir fell to the ground. A powerful blaze of agony exploded in the back of his head.

And he succumbed to the darkness that rushed to meet him.


	5. Chapter 5

Boromir was uncertain whether it was the firelight or the noise that woke him. Perhaps it had been both.

Whatever the case, he found himself gradually awakening until he was fully alert and wishing that he had been able to remain unconscious.

His whole body ached. It felt as though someone had lit a fire inside of his head. His hand—the one that the Orc had injured—was throbbing.

_The poison…is already coursing through…my blood… _Boromir thought dimly, opening his eyes.

He closed them again a moment later. There was a real fire burning somewhere near him, and it hurt his eyes. He could not feel the heat, so he assumed that it was, at the very least, a few yards away.

The noise he had heard was the Orcs. It appeared that they were arguing yet again; however, this time they spoke in the Black Speech, and Boromir could not understand them.

Almost hesitantly, Boromir opened his eyes again and turned his gaze in the direction of the Orcs.

Sure enough, there were the three Orcs. They were crowded around a fire, growling angrily amongst themselves.

For a moment, Boromir felt a flash of horror. Had they caught Alcarin? Had they killed the stallion? What if the Orcs were now…

No. They had not killed Alcarin. Besides, even if they had, the fire was too small to sufficiently…

Boromir decided to stop his thoughts there.

One of the Orcs shifted position, and he could finally see what they were fighting over. He felt a faint sense of relief.

They did not hold meat in their hands. Instead, they held Boromir's black leather tabard, as well as his tunic and chain mail shirt. Apparently, they were trying to decide who would receive which item.

_That explains why I feel so cold, despite the fire… _Boromir thought, flicking his eyes downward to glance at his exposed torso.

Gingerly, Boromir attempted to sit up. Much to his chagrin, his hands were bound in front of him, making it extremely complicated to move without falling.

To make matters worse—if that was even possible—the soft _thud _of Boromir's body hitting the cold ground again alerted one of the Orcs that he was awake.

"Finally awake, eh?" rasped one of the Orcs, slowly standing up. "Took you long enough. It's been dark for over four hours now!"

Boromir gave the Orc no answer. Instead, he tried to sit up again. He managed to brace his back against the wall and use it as leverage to push himself into an upright position.

His pleasure was short-lived. As soon as he sat up, the Orc arrived and kicked him in the ribcage. Boromir hit the ground yet again.

Raucous laughs sounded from the two Orcs still by the fire. The monster in front of Boromir reached down. Without showing any sign of strain, the Orc grabbed Boromir by the upper arms and hoisted him up, slamming him against the wall.

Boromir winced as his already-aching head collided with the stone wall of the cave, but refused to make a sound. He would not give these creatures the satisfaction of knowing they were causing him pain.

"Trying to escape, were ya?" growled the Orc, roughly shoving Boromir against the stone wall again. "Why? Is there something important you need to do? Or do you just not enjoy our company?" He drew one hand back and brought it forward again, viciously striking Boromir across the face.

There were more laughs from the other Orcs, and one of them shouted, "Hurt 'im, Shazta!"

Shazta. So that was the lead Orc's name.

"Answer me!" snarled Shazta, grabbing Boromir's left hand—the one still bandaged from the run-in with the Warg—in a crushing grip.

Boromir bit back a cry of pain as he felt one of the gashes on his hand reopen, seeping blood through the already stained bandages. He knew not why, but he suddenly felt as though he could not tell the Orcs that he was journeying towards Rivendell.

Shazta slammed him against the stone wall again. Boromir was certain he felt something inside of him snap or crack…

He braced himself to be shoved against the wall once again. Instead, Shazta surprised him by yanking him forward and throwing him to the ground.

Boromir tried to keep his balance, but to no avail. He fell down hard, jarring his head against a stone. This time, he could not keep back a low groan of pain.

At this, the Orcs laughed.

Boromir felt a flash of rage at the sound of their taunts. Blinking rapidly in an attempt to clear his head, Boromir pulled his legs underneath his body and staggered to his feet.

It was much more complicated than he expected to stand up without any help from his hands. His knees nearly buckled in the process.

_If—_when_—I return to Minas Tirith, I must exercise my leg muscles more often, _Boromir decided. Then he was surprised that he had actually thought something out clearly. His mind was hazy, and most of his thoughts were broken and faint.

Shazta stalked towards him. Boromir tensed, waiting for another blow and feeling unbearably helpless to defend himself.

Surprisingly, Shazta reached out and, with a swift motion, cut the ropes away from Boromir's wrists.

Boromir glanced distrustfully at the Orcs, knowing that no good could come of this supposed 'act of kindness'. Nonetheless, he took advantage of the moment and rubbed at his sore, chafed wrists. He noted that his hands were trembling slightly.

_Another aftereffect of the poison, I assume… _Boromir thought gravely, cringing as the blood started circulating in his wrists again, causing them to throb.

"Right, then," Shazta remarked. "This ought to be fun." He smirked at Boromir. "We're gonna play a little game."

A wave of uneasiness rose up inside of Boromir, but he forced himself to meet Shazta's gaze steadily. 'Fun' almost certainly meant 'fun for the Orcs'-definitely _not _'fun' for Boromir.

"The best thing is, this game has no rules," Shazta continued. A malicious grin began to spread across his hideous face. "The one fact that might be thought of as a rule is that weapons are not allowed."

Boromir stared at Shazta blankly. His mind was clouding over—no doubt an effect of the Orc poison—and it was taking increasingly longer for words to register in his head.

"Do I have to explain it even more?" growled Shazta. "All right, what's the best way to say this…we are going to have a little bout of hand-to-hand combat." The malevolent sneer on his face grew ever wider.

Slowly, Boromir began to comprehend what Shazta was saying. And then a horrible feeling of helplessness washed over him.

It was impossible! Shazta would beat him to a pulp. The odds were not fair at all—Boromir was tired and weak from the poison running through his veins, as well as injured. Shazta appeared to be (and probably was) healthy.

Boromir pushed down all of the reluctance and increasing terror that he felt. _I am a son of Gondor. I will not show fear; certainly not to these brutes._

Shazta clapped his hands once. "Let's begin, shall we?" There was a dangerous glint in his yellow eyes.

Boromir's muscles tensed. He kept his eye on Shazta. Perhaps he could use his smaller size as an advantage against the Orc…but he had to wait for the right time.

Boromir nearly laughed at how ironic the statement was. 'Time'…someone who was stricken by Orc poison hardly had any 'time'. Certainly not enough time to defeat the said Orcs.

Shazta was circling Boromir. Boromir turned slowly in order to keep his gaze on the Orc.

Without any hint or warning, Shazta lunged, his fists raised. Boromir managed to dodge the attack, nearly toppling over as a blaze of pain lanced up his spine and into his skull.

He turned to face Shazta again. If the Orc had looked angry before, he now looked absolutely irate. It did not help that his comrades were laughing uproariously in the background, amused that the injured Man had evaded Shazta.

Shazta moved forward. Now he was going slower, as though he thought that if he got closer it would be harder for Boromir to dodge his next attack.

Boromir retreated at the same speed as Shazta advanced. He wanted desperately to back away faster, but he was in danger of stumbling as it was.

Shazta suddenly ran forward yet again. Boromir did not have enough time to sidestep the second attack, and Shazta almost instantly had him pinned to the ground. Boromir fought to get out from underneath the Orc.

A fist slammed into Boromir's face again and again, until he wondered whether it would be easier just to give up his feeble struggles to escape. Whether it would be easier to just succumb to the darkness that was creeping along the edges of his vision.

No. Boromir, Son of Denethor the Steward of Gondor was not going to let a mere Orc destroy him.

With a sudden surge of adrenaline and strength, Boromir lunged against Shazta's hold. Startled, the Orc faltered slightly. Boromir wriggled out from underneath him and staggered to his feet.

The other two Orcs continued laughing, even moreso now that their leader had apparently been bested yet again by a Man.

Shazta scowled, and murder shone in his eyes.

Boromir realized that, if he was going to have any chance of surviving, he would have to take the offensive.

With a shouted challenge, Boromir launched himself forward.

Shazta, who had certainly not expected Boromir to attack, was caught unawares and fell to the ground, with Boromir on top of him.

Boromir, still pinning the Orc down, stretched out his right hand and picked up a rock. He did not have stiff leather gauntlets on like Shazta did; therefore, it would be harder to do damage.

Shazta let out a roar and launched himself forward, throwing Boromir off. Boromir skidded across the stony ground and hit the wall. He could feel blood streaming down his face; he knew some of it came from a cut across his forehead, and some from his mouth, where two teeth had been dislodged.

But the rock was in his hand. Maybe he had a chance now.

Shazta stalked forward. He swooped down, grabbed Boromir's right hand—the one that continued to bleed through his makeshift bandages—and dragged him to his feet.

Boromir took the chance and brought the hand with the rock in it down hard on Shazta's head. Instantly, a flash of pain shot through Boromir's wrist—he had forgotten how notoriously hard Orc skulls were.

However, it seemed to have affected Shazta as well. The Orc stumbled backwards with a howl, clutching at his head.

Boromir kept the rock in his grip, breathing hard. _I cannot keep this up for much longer…_

With an enraged roar, Shazta staggered to his feet. The other two Orcs continued to cheer their leader on.

But Shazta was done toying with his prey. He snarled something in the Black Speech, and his comrades got to their feet, muttering under their breath.

Boromir retreated until he was pressed up against the wall again. The cold stone pressed into his back.

When the three Orcs reached him, he made one last desperate attempt to escape. He ran forward, trying to duck past his foes. Not the cleverest maneuver, but it was his only option.

It didn't work. One of the Orcs grabbed Boromir by the shoulder, then kneed him in the abdomen and threw him down.

Doubled over in pain and coughing uncontrollably, Boromir wondered why it had to be him of all people that would be captured by these sadistic creatures. It was humiliating.

Suddenly, a fiery blast of agony shot through his head and neck, and everything went black.


	6. Chapter 6

Boromir found himself being shaken awake by—who else—one of the Orcs. It seemed as though decades had passed since he had been knocked unconscious.

One Orc held his right arm in a vise-like grip, while the other Orc grasped his left arm. Shazta sat by the fire, examining Boromir's weapons with idle curiosity.

Shazta glanced over his shoulder. Then he sneered, carelessly tossed Boromir's precious sword down on the ground, and stood up.

"Right, now," Shazta remarked, casually brushing nonexistent dust from his hands. "You can make this easier on yourself by just answering my questions. If you actually enjoy being tortured, then fine—we enjoy torturing you." He grinned, a malicious glint in his yellow eyes.

Boromir could not keep back a shudder. He wondered how much longer he could hold out—he could hardly move because of the poison that was gradually overcoming his body and because of the various injuries he had acquired.

His courage was slowly dwindling.

"Where were you going before we intercepted you on the road?" Shazta asked, nonchalantly slipping a knife from a sheath at his waist.

Boromir hesitated for a split second. "Bree," he lied. Somehow, he knew deep down in his heart that he could not let the Orcs know where his true destination was.

Shazta laughed harshly. "Bree, eh? Why would you be going there? No, you had an entirely different plan in mind. Tell me what it was." He held up the dagger.

"I was going to…to Bree," Boromir repeated, cursing himself for not sounding more insistent.

Shazta gave Boromir a curious look, then, without warning, lashed out with the knife. The blade cut into Boromir's exposed chest.

Caught off-guard, Boromir could not keep back a shout of pain. Rivulets of blood streamed down his torso.

"You'll be in even worse shape if you don't stop telling us falsehoods," Shazta said calmly. He knelt down, picked up Boromir's tunic, and cleaned his blade off on it.

Normally, Boromir would have been enraged at this act of contempt, but not now. He was simply in too much agony—physically and mentally—to even care anymore.

"Where were you going? Don't lie again; this particular dagger isn't poisoned, you know. You won't be able to escape the pain by dying just yet," Shazta said.

Boromir remained stonily silent. In his muddled mind, one thought was clear—he could not give away the reason he had been travelling.

Shazta gave a dramatically melancholy sigh. "You're only hurting yourself, you know. We'll get the information we seek out of you sooner or later. If you tell me everything now, then perhaps I'll kill you quickly and painlessly afterwards."

This emitted groans of complaint from the other Orcs, who obviously did not appreciate the idea of killing Boromir quickly and without pain.

After several minutes of silence, Shazta stepped forward with a slow deliberateness and pressed the sharp tip of his dagger against Boromir's shoulder. He ran the cold blade down Boromir's upper arm, but did not draw blood.

Boromir felt like shuddering, but his body was much too numb.

Shazta leaned in closer. "Tell…me…where…you…were…going," he whispered in Boromir's ear. The Orc's breath reeked of rotten meat and decay.

Boromir's steely resolve faltered slightly, and he nearly yelled out, "Rivendell!" But he caught himself just in time.

This near slip-up did not go unnoticed by Shazta, who smirked. He did not repeat the question. Instead, he ran the blade down Boromir's arm again, this time drawing a thin line of red. Blood welled up in the shallow laceration.

Boromir gritted his teeth to keep from letting out a groan of pain.

"You're braver—or more foolish—than most," Shazta marveled. "Well, even mighty mountains have to crumble sometime." He dug the point of the knife a little deeper into Boromir's flesh, then jerked his hand downward. The blade cut a deeper gash into Boromir's arm.

This time, Boromir screamed. He could not help it.

Surely Denethor would understand why his eldest son and the heir to the stewardship of Gondor had showed signs of pain—Orcs were notorious for making men break…

Vaguely, through the haze in his mind, Boromir heard Shazta repeat the question.

When Boromir did not answer, Shazta lifted the dagger. He pressed the tip of the blade against Boromir's shoulder…

And began to etch a shape into Boromir's flesh.

Boromir let out a cry of pain. He heard himself pleading for the Orc to stop, as though his soul had escaped and was hovering above, watching his body.

He screamed until he went hoarse, and his voice faded. Shazta did not relent.

Suddenly, there was a challenging yell from the mouth of the cave. The Orcs holding Boromir up let go of him, and he crumpled to the ground.

Boromir wanted nothing more than to be taken away from all of the agony he was in. If he could not be taken by unconsciousness, then why could he not die? Anything would be better than this excruciating pain…

Yet he remained half-awake, half-asleep. He could hear the noises of a battle going on in the background, and what sounded like the dying shrieks of an Orc.

After a few seconds of listening to the shouts, the resounding clang of blade meeting blade, and groans, sleep mercifully took Boromir, and he heard no more.

"Wake up, my friend. Wake up."

Someone was shaking Boromir, trying to awaken him. As a result, hot flashes of pain were radiating through his body.

Boromir gave a quiet groan and weakly tried to bat the prodding hand away.

"If you do not wake up, I won't be able to heal your wounds," the voice said. "And if I do not heal your wounds, you will most certainly be dead by dawn tomorrow."

At this point, Boromir didn't care whether he died or not. The Orcs had humiliated him, and he had shamed himself by showing that they were causing him anguish. He could never face his father again…

"Come, now! Open your eyes, son of Gondor!" the voice persisted.

With great effort, Boromir managed to do as the mysterious 'voice' asked. Although his vision was cloudy, he could just barely make out the face of his rescuer.

The man's hair was long and brown, and had golden-colored streaks in it, due to prolonged exposure to bright sunlight. His eyes were an intense hazel, and he sported a well-trimmed goatee.

Boromir blinked slowly. Even with his nearly nonexistent vision, he could tell that this man was a warrior of Rohan.

But what was he doing here? And how had he known that the Orcs had captured Boromir?

"Good, good!" the man said. "Now, listen to me. I'm going to apply a poultice to your wounds. It will sting—perhaps even burn—but you must not make any sudden movements. If you do so, you will only make things worse. Do you understand?"

Boromir opened his mouth to make a reply, but the only sound he could manage was a hoarse, strained breath.

"A nod will suffice," the Rohan warrior added, seeing how hard it was for Boromir to speak.

Feeling embarrassed and even more humiliated, Boromir nodded his head once, stopping when a jolt of pain erupted in the back of his skull.

After that, the man took a small glass jar out of his knapsack. It was filled with a pale brown substance. He opened it and proceeded to apply some of the paste to the long gash on Boromir's arm.

The man had been right. It stung. Boromir had to bite down on his tongue to keep from flinching.

As he treated Boromir's wounds, the Rohan warrior began to talk.

"You are fortunate I came along when I did," he said. "If I had been but a few moments later, you would be dead now."

Boromir wished the man would quit reminding him of that.

"I am called Eodran, son of Theoled," the man continued. He paused, then reached into his pack and took out a waterskin.

"Here," he said, offering it to Boromir.

Boromir hesitated, then accepted the waterskin and took a long drink from it. He was careful not to make any sharp movements.

A few minutes later, nearly all of his injuries had been treated, except for the one on his shoulder.

He had almost forgotten about that one. His whole body hurt so bad, he couldn't quite tell where any of his wounds were.

Boromir glanced down at his shoulder while Eodran was rummaging around in his pack for something.

Apparently, Shazta had had his fun. The bleeding laceration in Boromir's shoulder was not merely a cut, but a tattoo of sorts.

A tattoo of the Red Eye.

Boromir gritted his teeth. Now he definitely could not face his father. Sauron's mark had been placed upon him—however unwilling he had been—and he would not forget that fact any time soon.

And if Denethor found out, neither would he.

Eodran returned with another poultice. He said nothing as he carefully spread it onto Boromir's shoulder.

Boromir waited for Eodran to make some sort of comment about the gruesome tattoo, but the Rohan man was quiet.

After he finished bandaging Boromir's shoulder, Eodran stood up. "There you are. You ought to be fine in a few days."

"Wh—what about the Orc poison?" Boromir asked, mentally cursing the way he stammered.

"The poultice I made is meant to rid your body of the toxin," Eodran replied.

"Why are you here? How did you find me?" Boromir inquired, his voice slowly growing stronger.

Eodran smiled, looking amused. "Perhaps I will answer all of your questions if you tell me your name, son of Gondor."

Boromir hesitated, and then nodded. "I am Boromir, son of Denethor, the Steward of Gondor."

Eodran's eyebrows arched in surprise. "According to Theoden King, you recently paid Rohan a visit. Why do you return so soon?"

"I am not returning to Rohan," Boromir replied. "I merely need to pass through your lands. I am going elsewhere."

Eodran nodded. "Very well."

"Now, perhaps you will consider answering my questions?" Boromir asked, shifting on the hard ground. He shivered as a cold wind blew through the cave.

"Of course." Eodran leaned over, picked up Boromir's tunic and leather tabard, and tossed them over to him. "What do you want to know?"

"How you found me, for one," Boromir answered, taking his tunic and gingerly putting it on. It needed to be cleaned, but not now. It was simply too cold to walk about without clothing.

"I was tracking those Orcs," Eodran said, nodding his head towards the corner.

Boromir looked in the direction the Rohan warrior indicated, and saw three large shapes piled there. The dead bodies of Orcs.

"When they stopped their march and took up residence in this cave, I knew something was wrong. So I kept watch, to try and figure out what they were doing," Eodran continued. "I did not know you were here until this morning, when I heard your cries."

Boromir averted his gaze as the familiar sense of humiliation built up inside of him again.

"Do not be ashamed," Eodran said. "You endured much torment with silence; most Men would have cried out long before. Perhaps you should have as well—then I would have been aware of your presence sooner."

Boromir made no reply to this. Instead, he carefully pulled his tabard down over his head. As he did so, he remembered something important.

"Alcarin. Where is Alcarin?" he asked, looking sharply at Eodran.

"Who?" Eodran was quite confused.

"My…my horse. His name is Alcarin, and we were separated when the Orcs came," Boromir said. He knew Eodran would consider it strange that Boromir spoke about his steed as though it was a real, living person, but cared not.

"I do not know where he is," Eodran responded. "When you are well enough to walk, I will help you search for—"

Boromir cut him off. "I am well enough to walk now." He got to his feet. His legs shook with the effort, but at least they did not buckle underneath him.

Eodran's expression was a skeptical one, but he said nothing. He straightened up and retrieved a long spear from where it was resting against the stone wall of the cave.

"Very well. Take up your belongings, and we shall hunt for your steed," Eodran said.

Boromir was all too happy to pick up his sword. He strapped it on, and then took hold of the Horn of Gondor.

Much to his relief, it was relatively unharmed. There were a few scratches on the horn, but no cracks or breaks.

A few moments later, he and Eodran were on their way.


End file.
